Chapter 3 — Whistle Talks

Coach Davis

The rhythmic squeak of sneakers against the gym floor hums faintly as I stand in the doorway of my office, lacrosse roster in hand. The chatter and laughter of the team bounce off the walls, their energy a stark contrast to the tension that lingered during today’s practice. My eyes sweep over the names and statistics on the page, but my focus drifts elsewhere.

Lia.

As usual, she’s the last to leave. Her stick is slung over her shoulder, her hoodie damp with sweat from the drills. She pauses at the far end of the gym, her gaze flickering toward the rack of jerseys as if searching for something—pride, fulfillment, maybe meaning. The weight in her posture is unmistakable. I’ve seen that weight before, in too many young players. I’ve carried it myself.

“Johnson,” I call out, my voice firm but soft enough not to startle her. She jolts slightly anyway, her head snapping toward me. I catch a flicker of something in her expression—was it guilt? Resignation?—before she schools her face into neutrality. “Got a minute?”

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the shaft of her stick, but then nods. “Yeah, Coach.”

I step aside, motioning her into the office. The fluorescent light casts a harsh glow over the cluttered desk, the walls lined with photos and trophies chronicling decades of players who’ve walked this path. A faint scent of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the metallic tang of the old whistle hanging from my neck. Lia sits across from me, her stick balanced on her knees, her fingers absently tracing the frayed leather grip. The way she clutches it, I can’t help feeling it’s more than a lacrosse stick to her—it’s a lifeline.

“You played well today,” I begin, my tone even as I lean back in my chair. Her eyes flicker upward, a faint shadow of gratitude crossing her features before it vanishes. She shifts, her shoulders tense as if bracing for the critique she’s already expecting.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, but the word is hollow, detached.

I pause, watching her carefully. “But…” I let the word hang in the air, hoping to soften its impact. Her head lifts just slightly, her hazel eyes meeting mine for a fraction of a second before darting away. The tension in her frame sharpens, her fingers gripping the stick tighter.

“But I can’t help wondering if you’re actually enjoying yourself out there,” I finish quietly.

Her brow furrows, her gaze dropping to the stick in her lap. “I’m fine,” she says quickly, too quickly, as though she’s convincing herself more than me. “Just tired.”

“Lia.” My voice lowers, and I lean forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “You’ve been playing on this team for three years. I’ve seen you light up when you’re in the zone, when the game flows and everything clicks. But lately…” I gesture vaguely, searching for the right words. “Lately, it looks like you’re carrying the weight of the world out there.”

Her jaw tightens, and she stares at the scratched surface of her stick as if it holds answers she can’t find. “I just…” She hesitates, exhaling softly. “I don’t want to let anyone down.”

The room feels heavier, the silence between us charged. I’ve been here before—with other players, with myself. I know better than to push too hard.

“You know,” I say finally, adopting a conversational tone, “when I was in college, I had this beat-up old stick. It was nothing special—older than half the gear in the locker room—but I swore it was magic. Every time I stepped onto the field with it, I felt unstoppable.”

Lia glances up at me, curiosity flickering in her expression. She doesn’t respond, but I can tell she’s listening.

“One season, though, I hit a rough patch. Missed passes, dropped goals... I started blaming the stick. I thought maybe it wasn’t as good as I’d convinced myself it was.” I allow a small smile to tug at my lips, leaning back in my chair. “So one day, I replaced the grip—just something fresh, something new. And you know what? It didn’t magically fix everything, but every time I picked it up after that, it felt... lighter. Like I’d let go of something I didn’t even know I was holding onto.”

Her fingers still on the leather grip, her expression unreadable but introspective. The silence stretches, and I let it. This needs to settle in her mind, not mine.

“Did it help?” she asks after a long pause, her voice so soft I almost miss it.

“It did,” I say. “Not because it fixed everything, but because it reminded me why I loved the game in the first place. Sometimes, we hold onto things—pressure, expectations, self-doubt—and we don’t even realize how much they’re weighing us down.”

She exhales sharply, almost a scoff, though it lacks hostility. “I don’t know if it’s that simple,” she says, her voice tinged with something between doubt and exhaustion.

“It rarely is,” I admit. “But it’s a start.”

Her gaze flickers to the whistle hanging around my neck, gleaming faintly under the fluorescent light, and I see something shift in her expression. She seems to consider something before looking away, her shoulders sinking slightly.

“Lia,” I say gently, leaning forward again. “You’re one of the most talented players I’ve ever coached. But that talent doesn’t mean much if you’re not enjoying what you’re doing. If it’s not bringing you joy, it’s okay to take a step back and figure out why.”

Her lips press into a thin line, and I can see the conflict in her eyes—fear, doubt, something deeper she’s not ready to share. Her fingers curl tighter around the stick, her knuckles whitening. I wonder, fleetingly, if she’s hearing her father’s voice in her head, or maybe the expectations she carries from so many others.

I gesture toward the grip, frayed and worn from years of use. “Maybe start small,” I suggest. “Think about replacing that grip. It’s held up for a long time, but sometimes a fresh start can make all the difference.”

Her eyes drop to the stick, her thumb brushing over the worn leather. “Maybe,” she murmurs, though her voice is distant.

I stand, signaling the end of our conversation, and she rises as well, slinging the stick back over her shoulder. “Just think about it,” I urge, soft but firm. “And remember, this office is always open if you need to talk.”

She meets my gaze briefly, her hazel eyes flickering with something unreadable. “Thanks, Coach,” she says quietly before turning toward the door.

As she walks out, I catch the faintest hesitation in her step, as though something is holding her back. She pauses briefly at the door, glancing over her shoulder—not at me, but at the whistle hanging around my neck. Then, without a word, she steps into the hallway, her footsteps fading into the distance.

I sink back into my chair, my fingers brushing the whistle absently. The office feels quieter now, almost still, but my mind is racing. I know that look in her eyes, that weight in her step. I’ve been there. I’ve fought that battle. It’s a long road to untangle the kind of pressure she’s under, but sometimes, small moments like this are where it starts.

And I have a feeling Lia’s journey is only just beginning.